Chrome Echo

No sign of life. No photographs. No stray book on a coffee table. No jacket on a hook. Nothing that spoke of human warmth, of chaos, of laughter or tears. Only echo. The silence here wasn't an absence of sound, but its active suppression. Thick, suffocating, it absorbed footsteps, voices, breath.

The silence of a mausoleum. Or a lair.

He stopped in the middle of the vast living room, which commanded a breathtaking view of the vineyards and the distant, hazy mountains. He turned to her. He smiled—not the predatory smile of a victor, but something more complex. The satisfaction of an artist who has finally hung a painting in the perfect spot.

“Welcome home, Olivia.”

She said nothing, her gaze sweeping over her prison. A gilded cage. The most beautiful, expensive cage imaginable. A cage with bars made of light and a lock made of aesthetics.

He seemed to read her mind. Or, more likely, he had planned this, calculated this reaction. “There are a few rules,” he said, his voice taking on a new quality. Not threatening, but instructive. The voice of a mentor. “They're simple. I don't like complicated rules. Violations require punishment, and punishment… is a distraction.”

He paced the room, fingers trailing over the chrome-and-leather arm of a designer chair.

“First: You don't try to leave.” He said it as casually as discussing the weather. “The property is secure. Electronics, sensors, cameras. And people. People who are paid very well to ensure that what belongs to me, stays with me.”

He stopped at the window, a silhouette against the light. “An escape attempt will be seen as a breach of our… agreement.” The word ‘agreement’ dripped with irony. “And it will have consequences. Not for you, directly—I’m not a barbarian, Olivia. I don’t hit women. But… I remember Marie. Do you remember Marie?”

Olivia nodded. Slowly.

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

He turned, walking. His steps on the marble were sharp, rhythmic, a metronome counting out the articles of a new code.

“Second: You do not lock doors.” He paused. “Any doors. Bedroom, bathroom, dressing room. I must have access to every part of this house at all times. Including your moments of… privacy.”

A different kind of chill ran down her spine. The violation was not about violence, but about erasure. The final bastion of self—privacy—was to be demolished. She kept her face impassive. Not now. Break later, alone.

“And third.” He approached her. Not too close—he left an arm’s length of space. “You will do as I say. Eat with me when I want company. Speak to me when I want conversation. Be silent when I want silence. Your schedule, your decisions, your day—I define them now.”

He paused. “I am not a sadist. I don't enjoy pointless humiliation. But I expect obedience. Absolute. Unquestioning. Because every time you disobey, you will ask yourself: Is this one act of defiance worth Marie’s life? Or the life of the next pawn on the board?”

This was it. The moment he expected her to shatter. To cry. To beg. To become the broken victim he had, undoubtedly, seen before. And in that precise moment, Olivia found the strength for her first counter-move.

She looked up at him—not with fear, but with contempt. Pure, crystalline contempt, sharper than any insult. “You can lock my body in this house,” she said, her voice steady, like crystal that has been struck but not yet broken. “You can threaten everyone I care about. You can control my every move, my every breath. You can turn me into your marionette.”

She took one small step toward him. Her decision. Her move. “But you will never be the master of my soul.” The words were quiet, but absolute. “You can own my time. My body. My actions. But what I am thinking when I look at you… who I remain, inside, when you turn away… that part of me you’re trying to dissect and understand—it will always be beyond your reach.”

She lifted her chin. “Remember that.”

For a fraction of a second—a flash—surprise flickered in his eyes. He hadn't expected this. Not this soon. Not with this force. He expected a broken woman. He got an opponent.

And—to her horror, mixed with something darker—he liked it.

The surprise was replaced by a predatory gleam. The thrill of a hunter who realizes the prey will fight back. That the hunt will be interesting. He smirked. Not a sneer, but something approaching… respect?

“Is that so?” he said slowly, savoring the words. “The spirit isn’t broken. The spine still holds. Interesting.”

He circled her slowly, assessing, like a sculptor planning the first strike of the chisel. “We'll see where your body ends and your soul begins, chérie.” The French endearment was both a mockery and a caress. “The boundary isn't as clear as you think. Pull one, the other twitches. Break one…”

He didn't need to finish.

He nodded toward a hallway. “Your room is the second door on the left. Everything you need is there. Clothes in your size, cosmetics. I don’t want you to feel… deprived.” The irony was sharp.

“Dinner is at nine. Be ready. I want to know you better, Olivia Duran. I want to find the cracks. And I always find the cracks.”

With that, he left her alone in the sterile, vast space.

She walked to the room. The hallway was long, white, lit by hidden fixtures. Abstract art on the walls—aggressive black slashes on white canvas. Second door on the left. The bedroom was huge. A king-size bed with ivory-white sheets—Egyptian cotton. A panoramic window wall, facing the sunset over the vineyards. The dressing room. Olivia slid the door open. And froze. Dozens of outfits. Loro Piana, Brunello Cucinelli, The Row. Her brands. Her neutral palette—beige, gray, black. Her size. He hadn't just studied her. He had dissected her. How long had he been watching? Months? Years? The thought made her skin crawl.

He wanted her comfortable in her prison. He wanted the capitulation to be slow, a warm bath she wouldn't notice was boiling her alive.

No.

Olivia slammed the wardrobe door. A small, loud act of resistance. She wouldn't wear his clothes. She wouldn't accept his gifts. She showered—hot, scalding—and put her own clothes back on. The beige trousers and silk blouse she’d arrived in. They were wrinkled, but they were hers. Her armor.

At nine o'clock, she emerged. He was waiting. The dining table was long, dark wood. Two chairs. Opposite each other, like an interrogation. He had changed. Black trousers, a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, unbuttoned at the collar. Casual. More dangerous. His power was no longer contained by a suit. It was bare. “Punctuality,” he said, not turning from the window. “The courtesy of kings. And, it seems, of hostages. Sit.” He had noticed she was in her old clothes. He was amused.

The table was set. Risotto with truffles. The aroma was divine. He sat opposite her. Poured her a glass of wine. Red, deep, almost black. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” he said. “1998. I trust you'll appreciate it. I remember you prefer Rhône wines. The Grenache blend.” Her heart skipped a beat. She’d mentioned that once. In an obscure art journal interview two years ago. He hadn't just studied her. He'd excavated her life.

“What is this performance?” she asked, her voice cold. “The fine dining. The expensive wine. You kidnapped me. You're threatening my friends. And now you’re playing… what? The gracious host?” “It’s not a performance,” he said, tasting the risotto. “I want to know you better.” “You know enough to destroy my life,” she snapped. He put his fork down, his patience an act of aggression. “I’m not interested in surface data, Olivia. Your clothing size, your food preferences. That's information. I can buy information. I can get it from your ex-husband, who was surprisingly talkative when I hinted I might forgive part of his debt in exchange for… details.” He swirled his glass. “I’m interested in something else. Your father built empires of concrete and steel. He despised the ephemeral. Art was an investment. Beauty was currency. So why did you… his daughter… choose beauty? Why an art gallery, and not a construction empire? Why did you betray his philosophy?”

The question blindsided her. He was digging for motivation. She was silent for a long time. “Because beauty is the only thing that makes sense in a cruel world,” she said, the truth escaping before she could stop it. “My father built houses no one was happy in. Empty houses. I worked for him. I saw the blueprints. Maximum square meters, minimum soul. Art… art is proof that not everything can be measured in money.” She stopped, realizing she’d said too much. “An answer my father would have despised,” she added. “The world isn't cruel,” he countered. “It’s practical. Weak people call it cruel. Strong people use its rules. Which one do you think I am?” “You're one of those who believes strength gives you the right to everything,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But every empire falls.” “Really?” He leaned forward. “And where is yourlimit, Olivia? Where is the line where the flawless gallery owner disappears, and the woman willing to do anything to survive emerges? The woman who forgets all about beauty and morality?” His voice dropped, almost hypnotic. “I can't wait to find out. To push you to that line. And watch you choose.”

He spoke of her destruction as if he were ordering dessert. She felt a cold, viscous terror. But mixed with something else. Something dark, illicit. Arousal. Not sexual. Not yet. But primal. The arousal of the prey that realizes the predator sees it not as food, but as a worthy opponent. She was on the edge of an abyss, and a shameful part of her wanted to look down.

No. He's manipulating you. She forced herself to drink the wine. It was magnificent. An anchor to reality. “You still haven't answered my question,” she said, her voice firm. “Who are you? Do you have a name? Or should I just call you 'kidnapper'?” He actually smiled. A real smile. “Mark,” he said. “Mark Leblan. I prefer the shadows.” He swirled his glass. “Your father knew me by another name. Thirty years ago, I was a kid on the streets of Marseille. Stealing to eat. Then he found me. Enzo Moretti. My teacher. My savior.” His voice hardened. “Enzo was a genius. He built a financial empire from nothing. He taught me everything. He was a father to me. The real father.” His fingers tightened on the glass. “And your father destroyed him.” The words fell like stones. “Methodically. Using the law as a weapon. They had a deal. A partnership. And your father… changed the terms. Used loopholes, corrupt judges. He ruined Enzo. Enzo died a year later. Broke. Alone. In a small flat in Marseille that smelled of mold and defeat.” Mark looked at her, his eyes pure darkness. “Before he died, he told me: ‘Never let a woman be your weakness.’ He was talking about his own mistakes. His wife, who left when the money was gone.” Mark stood, turning to the window. “I promised him I would have vengeance. I waited twenty years. I built my own empire. I became strong enough to challenge Jacques Duran.” He turned back. “And when I was ready… your father died.” A humorless smirk. “A heart attack. A merciful death he didn't deserve. He left without ever feeling fear. Without knowing what it’s like to lose everything.” He returned to his seat, his gaze pinning her. “And then I understood. I can't take revenge on a dead man. But I can take revenge on his legacy. His empire was sold. His business dissolved. Nothing was left. Nothing… except one thing.” A pause. “You.” The word was a sentence. “His ideal daughter. His pride. His masterpiece. The only thing he loved more than his empire. “So I decided. I will take his masterpiece. I will take it apart. See how it’s made. Find the cracks. I will prove to Enzo that a Queen doesn't have to be a weakness. She can be a force. An weapon. I will strip away your illusions of morality and kindness… and we will see what's left underneath. Whether it’s metal. Or just emptiness.”

Silence. Heavy. Olivia looked at this man—Mark Leblan—and his obsessed, wounded soul. She felt… understanding. Her father was a monster. She knew it. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. “I am not my father’s legacy. I am his negation. Everything I built, I built against him.” “You think so,” Mark said softly. “But I see you. I see how you manage people—your staff fears you. How you negotiate—ruthless. You buy art for its value, not its beauty. You are his daughter, Olivia. You just hide it behind pretty words.” “No!” She stood up so fast the chair screeched. “You don't know me. You know data.” He stood, too. Slowly. “Then show me,” he said, his voice a low command. “Prove you're not his copy. Prove there's something real under that flawless facade.” He stepped around the table. “We have time. Weeks. Months. I’m in no hurry. I will peel back the layers, one by one, like an archaeologist searching for treasure. Or an empty tomb.” He raised a hand, and she flinched. He just brushed a stray lock of hair from his own forehead. A human gesture. “Go. Rest. Tomorrow, your… education… begins. Good night, Olivia.”

It was a dismissal. She turned and walked—not ran—from the room. She reached her door, locked it—no, she couldn't—and leaned against it, her body finally starting to shake. She slid to the floor. She understood. This wasn't just revenge. It was an experiment. She was a lab rat. The dissertation: Can the daughter of a monster not be a monster herself? And the most terrifying part… She looked at her hands. The hands that signed contracts. The hands that fired people. Is he right? Am I his copy? The question hung in the empty room.

She eventually stood, washed her face. The woman in the mirror looked terrified. No. Not broken. Not yet. Olivia straightened her back. Lifted her chin. He wants to find the cracks? Let him look. She would not give him the pleasure of an easy victory. She would fight. For every inch of her soul. She got into the bed. The sheets smelled of lavender. Sleep did not come for a long time. And when it did, it brought nightmares. Of chrome cages. Of green eyes that see right through you. Of a voice whispering: Show me who you really are.

Chapter 4. The First Cracks

Olivia woke because the room was too quiet.

Not the pleasant, muffled silence of morning, when the world is still asleep and one can savor the peace before the day begins. This was a dead, oppressive silence, the kind found in soundproof rooms, in bunkers, in places severed from life.

She opened her eyes. The ceiling was white, perfectly white, without a single stain, crack, or trace of time. Like a blank page. An operating theater. An emptiness.

For a second, she couldn't remember where she was. Then memory returned in an avalanche.

The gallery. Lebrun. The black car. Mark Leblan. The villa. The rules. The dinner. His story about Enzo. His words: You are his copy.

Olivia sat up in bed. The sheets were tangled, damp with sweat—the nightmares hadn't just come at the beginning of the night, but had continued until morning. She didn't remember the details, only fragments: a chrome surface reflecting a thousand distorted faces. Her father’s voice, saying, I told you you were weak. Green eyes that saw right through her.

She looked at the window. Beyond the glass, the sunlight was bright and ruthless—judging by the angle, it was around nine a.m. She had overslept. Usually, she woke at six, went for a run, then a shower, coffee, and was at the gallery by eight.

Usually.

A word from another life. A life that no longer existed.

On the bedside table, a note was waiting. Thick, cream-colored paper, calligraphic handwriting in black ink:

“Breakfast on the terrace. When you're ready. No rush. —M.”

It was short. Polite. With an undertone of care that was worse than any brutality, because it created the illusion of normalcy. As if she were a guest, not a prisoner.

Olivia crushed the note in her fist. An impulsive, furious gesture. Meaningless, childish, but it was her action, her choice.

A small act of resistance.

She stood and walked to the bathroom. The massive, wall-sized mirror reflected her in the morning light.

The woman in the mirror looked… bad.

Dark, violet circles under her eyes that no concealer could hide. Her hair was matted, tangled—she’d forgotten to brush it before bed. Her lips were dry and chapped. Her skin was pale, with an unhealthy, gray tinge. She looked like someone who had spent the night in hell.

What are you doing? the reflection asked silently. Are you going to surrender? Fall apart? Let him see you break?

No.

Olivia turned on the shower. The water was hot, almost scalding—just how she liked it. She stood under the spray, closed her eyes, and let the water wash away the sweat, the fear, the exhaustion.

A ritual of cleansing.

She washed her hair—the shampoo smelled of jasmine, expensive, organic. Of course he had attended to every detail. She worked conditioner through, combing out the tangles with her fingers. Every motion was a meditation, a reclamation of control over her own body.

This is my body. He can control where it is. But not what I do with it.

She stepped out, drying herself. She found cosmetics in a cabinet—all the brands she used. La Mer, Augustinus Bader, Tom Ford. The full arsenal.

Olivia applied moisturizer, serum, eye cream. Each touch to her face was an act of self-respect. Then, foundation—light, but enough to hide the traces of a sleepless night. Concealer under her eyes. One coat of mascara, natural. A nude lipstick.

She watched her face in the mirror transform. From exhausted to controlled. From broken to composed.

A mask. You're putting on a mask. Just as you always do. Just as your father taught you. The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like Mark’s.

Shut up, she told the internal voice.

Then, her hair. She dried it, then pulled it back into a smooth, low bun—her usual hairstyle for work. Severe. Elegant. Emphasizing the line of her neck and jaw.

The armor was ready.

She left the bathroom and opened the wardrobe again. She looked at the rows of clothes he had chosen for her. Yesterday, she had refused, staying in her wrinkled clothes as an act of protest. But today… today required strategy.

Her clothes—the ones she’d arrived in—were dirty. To wear them again would be to look disheveled, defeated. It would mean showing him she was losing control.

You're not going to lose this just because you're stubborn.

Olivia pulled trousers from a shelf—beige, wide-leg linen, Brunello Cucinelli. And a blouse—white, silk, with a high neck, The Row. Classic. Elegant. Expensive, but not loud.

She put them on. The fabric was perfect—soft, breathable, the kind of quality you could feel on your skin. The fit was precise. Not just her size—her exact size, accounting for her preference for a slightly looser cut in the hips, a slightly more tailored waist.

How long had he been watching me to know even that?

The thought was sickening. But she pushed it away. Don't think about it. Focus on now.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The woman in the reflection looked composed. Controlled. Almost normal. Almost. The fear was still in her eyes, hidden under layers of makeup and control. But if you didn't look too closely, you couldn't see it.

Olivia stood straight, pulling her shoulders back. Inhale. Exhale. You are ready. Go to war.

The terrace was on the other side of the villa—the one facing east. The morning sun flooded the space with soft, golden light, but elegant white awnings had been extended to create islands of shade.

The table was set. A white linen cloth, simple white china, a bouquet of lavender in the center—simple, Provençal, without excess. A silver coffee pot, croissants in a woven basket, butter, several types of jam in small glass jars, fresh fruit.

An idyll. A postcard from Provence. All that was missing was a happy couple, enjoying the morning at their country home.

Mark was standing at the railing, his back to the house, looking out over the vineyards. He was dressed in a simple white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and dark trousers. He was barefoot. His hair was slightly damp—he had also showered recently.

He looked relaxed. Almost peaceful. Like a man who had achieved his goal and was now enjoying the fruits of his victory.

Olivia stopped in the doorway. Her instincts screamed: Don't go near him. Don't play this game of normalcy. But she had no choice.

Mark heard her footsteps—or perhaps sensed her presence—and turned. His gaze slid over her. Quick. Appraising. It lingered on her face—noticing the makeup. It dropped to her clothes—noticing she had worn what he'd selected.

A faint smile touched his lips. Not triumphant. More… approving.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was softer than yesterday. Almost friendly. “Did you sleep well?”

Lie or truth? “No,” she answered honestly. No point in lying about it. He could see the circles under her eyes, even if she’d disguised them. “Nightmares.”

He nodded, as if expecting that answer. “That's normal. The first night in a new place is always difficult. Especially when you're not here by choice.” He gestured to the table. “Sit. You need to eat. Hunger doesn't help clear thinking.”

Olivia walked to the table. She sat. Mark sat opposite her. The morning light hit him at a different angle than the evening light had, and for the first time, she could see his face in detail, without the filter of fear and shock.

He was beautiful. Not classically beautiful—his features were too sharp for that. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose with a barely-perceptible bump—broken once, and it hadn't healed perfectly. His lips were thin, but well-defined.

The mole. A small one, the color of dark chocolate, just above his right eyebrow. Not a flaw, not a scar. An accent. Like a mark placed with pinpoint precision, to emphasize the perfect line of his brow and the intensity of the gaze beneath it. A sign.

His eyes. Green, with an explosion of gold flecks near the pupil. The color of the sea in a storm. Beautiful and dangerous.

His age… thirty-six? Forty? Hard to say. It was the face of a man who had seen too much, lived through too much, but kept himself in perfect condition.

“You’re studying me,” he observed, pouring her coffee. Black, strong—the aroma hit her, waking her up completely. “That’s good. Know your enemy. A classic strategy.”

“Are you my enemy?” she asked, taking the cup. The porcelain was warm. “I thought I was your experiment.”

“The two aren't mutually exclusive.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “An enemy can be a subject of study. An opponent on a chessboard—you have to understand him to defeat him.”

Olivia sipped the coffee. It was perfect. Not too bitter, not too weak. Of course.

“So this is still a game to you? A game of chess?”

“Isn’t it?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You're sitting here. Drinking my coffee. Wearing the clothes I chose. You're speaking to me civilly, even though last night you wanted to scratch my eyes out. You're adapting. You're playing by the rules I set. It’s a move. A smart one, I’ll admit. Better than hysterics or a hunger strike.”

He was right. And that was infuriating.

Olivia took a croissant. Broke it in half. It was fresh—warm, flaky, with a crisp crust and a soft, buttery interior. The taste of butter, yeast, and salt exploded in her mouth. She was starving. She had barely eaten yesterday. Her stomach clenched with gratitude.

Don't thank him. Not even in your head.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, after chewing and swallowing. “Why all this… facade of normalcy? Breakfast on the terrace. Polite conversation. You could have locked me in a room. Kept me in chains. You want to break me, don’t you? So why pretend?”

Mark picked up his cup. Took a sip. Watched her over the rim. “Because I am not a barbarian,” he answered finally. “And because there are different ways to break someone. Pain, hunger, isolation—those are crude tools. They get fast results, but they break a person the wrong way. A person broken by pain breaks from the outside in